Maurice Level - Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

The event which the colonel foresaw arrived. His regiment retreated. In conformity with instructions, not a tree was left standing, nor a bridge on its arches, nor a stream in its bed. The work was accomplished methodically; explosions succeeded one another at regular intervals. The house which the colonel lived in alone remained intact, with its old balconies of wrought iron, its garden of flowers, its windows hung with curtains.

The colonel departed with regret, carrying with him a few souvenirs—two silver candlesticks, a clock, a silver gilded water glass—mere trifles. But he left the furniture shining, the table linen carefully folded, the floors waxed like glass.

He had already reached the open country when he recalled that he had forgotten to leave a P. P. C. card. Desirous of being impeccable to the last extreme, he retraced his steps. But on entering his apartments he stopped, stupefied at first, then bursting with fury.

With blows from a pick four soldiers were demolishing the bathroom and the water pipes. Seeing him, the men redoubled their ardor. He shouted to them:

“Swine! I shall have you shot!”

A fifth man appeared, his sleeves rolled up, a hammer in his hand. It was the lieutenant who had been so amiable and correct.

“You? Is it you I find here?” bellowed the colonel. “You, who know my ideas? I shall send you before a court-martial!”

“At your orders,” answered the officer, clicking his heels. “But excuse me, Colonel. All this installation comes from the firm of Schwein, Boelleri & Co., of Mannheim, of which I am the representative for Northern France. Our house alone possesses these replacement parts. And after the war, I thought, how simple it would be for these people to apply to us for the plumbing fittings. It would be a very natural way of resuming business relations. As trifling as the thing seems, it concerns our industry in the highest degree.”

“Well, that is different,” said the colonel gravely. “Deutschland über alles! Consider that I have said nothing at all.”

Reassured by these words, the lieutenant finished demolishing, with a well-directed blow of his hammer, a syphon which had hitherto resisted his attack.

M. ANDMME. Jutelier recoiled in horror as they unpacked Aunt Sophie’s gift. M. Jutelier was the first to recover his powers of speech, but it was only to enunciate in accents of despair, “And to think that now we have to put that thing somewhere where she can see it!” Whereupon Mme. Jutelier, whose temperament led her to dare extreme measures, cried out, “Never! I’d rather have her cut us out of her will and be done with it.” But her husband shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Once again they stood in despairing silence while on the table in front of them the vase spread out its enormous lacquered paunch, decorated with flowers, with fruit, and with seashells. In the middle of these decorations, a coiled serpent darted out a long red tongue, and here and there the leaves of waterplants hung in festoons that were intended to be decorative. The base was blue and the inside was salmon pink. “There is no doubt about it,” murmured M. Jutelier, “that thing has no equal for ugliness.”

“It simply means,” said Mme. Jutelier, “that our apartment is ruined.”

“Oh, la, la la!” groaned M. Jutelier, “and it was all so nice and cosy.”

Giving free rein to his despair he cast his eyes about the room for some place to put the terrifying gift with results that would not be too disastrous. The mantelpiece—impossible. The table—less possible still. The buffet—the thought brought tears to his eyes. He suggested the salon, but Mme. Jutelier announced firmly, “If that thing goes through the door of the salon, I go through the street door.”

“In the bedroom,” he ventured.

Mme. Jutelier turned pale with anger.

“Not in my room! Why not in your office?”

M. Jutelier explained that was the very last place one could think of. As an architect he was called upon to receive clients, who would flee from the mere presence of such an object. They passed all their rooms in review, and at the mention of each one Mme. Jutelier set up stubborn opposition. She had not been collecting the loveliest bibelots and weeding out everything that was not in perfect taste, for all these years, in order to have this monstrosity thrust in among her treasures. And then suddenly M. Jutelier smote his forehead.

“How many times a year does Aunt Sophie come to visit us? Twice, or say three times. In the winter she does not go out because of her rheumatism, and from July to October she is in the country. Being a personage above the common station, and expecting to be received with the ceremonies due her, she always announces her visits in advance. All we have to do is to put this horror in the attic and bring it down when we hear she is coming. That way we can arrange everything, and later on, at the very last, when the poor old lady is dead, why then, if we have a country house, it will do to put it in the guest chamber.”

“To give our guests the nightmare? No, sir, when that time comes we’ll smash it.”

“All right then; smash it if you want to”—and having made mutual concessions they embraced each other.

Next Sunday Aunt Sophie arrived. They had carefully put chairs on each landing so that the dear lady could rest on her way up, and they had set the vase on the table so that her eye would fall on it the very first thing. But being a discreet old soul, she pretended not to see it at once, and her niece had to remark, with an ecstatic smile, “Do you think your vase is in the right place?”

“Yes,” murmured Aunt Sophie, “but I think I should have preferred the mantelpiece. Then you can see it a second time in the mirror.”

“Your aunt is right,” said Mme. Jutelier to her husband, “and if we put a green plant in it—”

“Well, do as you want to,” said Aunt Sophie, “but for my part I’d rather see a little moss with artificial roses stuck in it. They look so pretty if you use all the colors. I’ll send you some. I have a lot.”

The household burst into a chorus of thanks, and Aunt Sophie departed, charmed.

“Well,” said M. Jutelier when they were alone again, “everything went off very well, and we are all right for the moment. You will see; everything will arrange itself.”

They put the vase out of sight, and life went on as usual. About Easter time Aunt Sophie came back. This time she brought the promised flowers, and this was the occasion of an affectionate and delightful discussion. Ought the artificial roses to be arranged according to color or according to size? Aunt Sophie’s opinion prevailed, and with her own hands she erected a hanging garden of the most ravishing description.

Summer came and brought vacation. Autumn came and brought rheumatism. As New Year’s Day approached the household trembled before a new fear. Suppose Aunt Sophie took it into her head to make them another New Year’s gift! She did not have this idea, however, but another one, a hundred times more dreadful. One day she called without sending word ahead; but fortunately Mme. Jutelier had seen her getting out of the taxi, and had just time to climb to the sixth story and bring down the object of art.

This alarm served its purpose. Since such an incident might occur again, they practiced the maneuver until it was all carefully worked out. As soon as a new maid was engaged, before they showed her in which closet Monsieur kept his coats, or where Madame kept her hats, they showed her, the very first thing, where the vase belonged, and told her how if by any chance a fat lady—dressed in black, wearing a capote, and carrying an umbrella no matter what the weather—should arrive when they were away, she must first of all lock the door of the dining-room and not open it on any pretext whatever until she had put the vase on the mantelpiece.